Washing Him Out

Praying for sleep after a warm bath,

lavender tea, chocolate jelly beans,

things meant to dull pain.

My hair is sopping, bleeding into my pillow

the pillow with the little angels on it.

Fitting.

I hold it close, pretend it is a boy,

an odd, square boy.

My boy.

Why did he have to go? And why

am I left lying in a lonely bed

clutching a damp pillow.

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